


under god's power she flourishes

by kmo



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman, Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: F/F, Library Sex, Misses Clause Challenge, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8883850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: Sam's work study job leads to a brush with the divine.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [woggy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/woggy/gifts).



> This story takes place roughly six months after the events of American Gods.

“Beef or chicken?” Sam asked her friend Jeremy, presenting the Styrofoam cups for his inspection.

“Beef or chicken _flavor_ ,” Jeremy corrected. “There’s no actual meat in that stuff. No nutritional value of any kind. Just loads of salt and MSG and god knows what else.”

“Believe me, I know.” She’d been surviving on little else for the past week, having used most of her savings to buy her textbooks.

Jeremy reached for his coat. “Let’s get pizza.”

Sam’s stomach grumbled and her mouth watered at the thought of fresh tomatoes and oregano, sausage and extra cheese. And then her heart sank, thinking of her dwindling bank account. Rent had gone up and the coffee shop had closed down. “I can’t, man. I’m broke.”

Jeremy gave her a look that was pure tough love. “Well, suck it up, buttercup, and get a job like the rest of us.”

“I tried—I asked around at the feminist bookstore and the art supply shop and like no one is hiring.”

“I can get you a job,” Jeremy said matter-of-factly, like he could just make jobs appear out of thin air. He tossed his scarf around his neck with an effete swish. “You can come do work study at the library with me. They always need people.”

“The library?” Sam kind of laughed, then realized it sounded unkind, too late.

“What’s wrong with the library?” Jeremy’s voice took on _that tone_ , the one he used in Lit seminar for people who thought Achilles and Patroclus were _just friends_. “I realize it’s not hip and edgy and organic vegan fair trade whatever like you’re used to, but it pays ten bucks an hour.”

“The library, huh?” Sam pictured it—the high vaulted ceilings, the quiet, lots of books. Sam liked books. Maybe she could just sneak off in a corner and read during her shift. “Okay, sounds good.”

“Great.” Jeremy tossed her leather jacket at her. “Now about that pizza…”

“I told you I’m broke.”

“My treat,” he said, fake graciously. “You can pay me back after you get your first paycheck at the library.”

“Deal,” Sam said. Because if she ate any more ramen noodles this week, she’d probably end up with scurvy.

*

Jeremy got her the job, just like he promised. He even pulled a few strings to be the one to show her the ropes. Everyone for the most part was a mix of friendly Midwestern with that touch of the bohemian that seemed to make Madison _Madison_ —the head librarian with the teal fauxhawk, the archivist with the poster from the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival proudly tacked to her wall. But there clearly was a hierarchy among the student workers, and as a newbie, she was among the lowest of the low.

“So, when do I get to like, check out books for people and stuff? You know, sit behind the big desk, mistress of all I survey?” Sam asked as he was walking her through the stacks.

“You don’t,” Jeremy said. “You need at least a Level 2-B clearance for that.”

“What level are you?”

“I’m a Level 4-C.” Sam wondered if Jeremy knew he was actually preening. Probably.

Sam snorted. “A Level 4 Librarian, eh? Sounds like some kind of D&D classification.”

“It’s the highest student worker level! I’ve worked here since first semester freshman year.”

“So, what kind of work do lowly,” Sam glanced down to check her newly minted ID badge, “Level 1-A library minions like me get to do?”

Jeremy guided her over to a trolley full of books with the spines facing up. “You start by re-shelving these books. I trust you’re familiar with the LC classification system?”

“Uh, isn't everyone?” Sam lied through her teeth. How hard could it be?

“Come find me downstairs when you’re done.” Jeremy fluttered his fingers at her and swanned off toward the weird tiny elevator they had come up in.

Sam looked at her stack of unfamiliar books, spines stamped with titles she couldn’t even read in a foreign alphabet she guessed was Cyrillic—couldn’t Jeremy have steered her to the English books section of the library for her first day? The shelves seemed to stretch on for miles, the stacks themselves a cramped and dusty cave. She felt like a prisoner, condemned to the salt mines. She felt like the Miller’s daughter—what wouldn’t she give for her own personal Rumpelstiltskin to come and spin her straw into gold?

An eerie chill caressed the nape of Sam’s neck, reminding her that there were things out there listening, eager to hear such wishes. “I take that back,” Sam said quietly, hoping the universe heard her.

*

After an hour or so of tedious library work, Sam found Jeremy downstairs in a space she could only describe as a kind of backstage, not open to civilians. Jeremy was happily scanning bar codes on a stack of glossy new books. He completed his task with a contentment Sam didn’t really understand, like he found it soothing in a way. Maybe it was like how some people really liked going to office supply stores.

He glanced up. “So, you made it back. Any longer, I was going to send out Search and Rescue.”

“Yeah.” Sam looked at her watch—she still had another hour before the end of her shift. Jeezus. She didn’t think she could take another hour of this—it wasn’t who she was. It fucked with her chi. “Listen, Jeremy, I appreciate you doing me a solid and all…”

At the moment when Jeremy’s eyes were about to do that sad puppy dog pouty thing that she could never say no to, Sam caught a flicker of something—of someone—over Jeremy’s left shoulder. She was tall and slender, with a great mass of light brown hair swept back from her face in a haphazard knot. Her clothes were kind of retro—vintage, Sam guessed—long wool skirt skimming the bottom of her calves. She wasn’t pretty exactly, more like…well, _statuesque_ was the word that came to mind. Not that Sam had ever really known any woman who fit that description.

“Jeremy,” the woman said, giving him a curt nod. Her cool grey eyes rested on Sam for the briefest moment, and Sam could swear they flashed back at her from behind her glasses, bright as a lightning strike. Sam heard something like the rushing of wings, and her blood hummed. And then the woman was gone.

“Who was that?” Sam asked.

“Ms. Gray. She’s an archivist. The head of Special Collections.” Jeremy drawled on, bored. Sam knew he was gay and all, but didn’t he feel the least bit buzzed by this woman’s beauty? “You were saying…”

“Nothing. Forget it.” Something in Sam’s heart quickened, a romantic notion taking flight. She’d do anything for another glimpse of the mysterious Ms. Gray, even work at the library.

*

Sam didn’t exactly take to her library job like a thunderbird to the sky, but she showed up every day for her shift and collected her paycheck. It wasn’t hard work, and in her role as library house-elf of all trades she never really had to deal with rude patrons or drunk college kids throwing up in the bathrooms on football Saturdays like she had at the coffee shop. Jeremy was nerdy, but fun, and it was nice to have a friend at work. Sometimes Sam missed her colorful former co-workers, especially the cute girls.

But Sam wasn’t into girls any more. She was into women. One in particular who really put the _special_ in Special Collections as far as Sam was concerned.

It was almost a month after their first encounter that Sam ran into her again.

She had been about to leave at the end of her shift when she came across Ms. Gray standing at the foot of the statue that adorned the library’s marble and gilt main entrance, a kind of antechamber to the even grander Victorian reading room. The statue of Wisdom had a lot of UW lore attached to it—her left foot was shiny and worn from generations of students rubbing it for good luck during exams. Not that Sam would ever do something so cheesy.

But today Wisdom was sporting a sign around her neck that proclaimed BEAT MICHIGAN in magic marker, her face covered with an actual red and white Wisconsin football helmet. Probably some fraternity or team prank; people did it all the time.

Ms. Gray stood at the foot of the statue scowling as she wrestled with a step ladder, unquestionably irritated by the vandalism.

Sam got nervous about the thought of her crush ascending the ladder in a skirt and heels and gallantly stepped forward. “Let me get it, Ms. Gray. I’m wearing sneakers.”

Her cold eyes brightened in surprise and she nodded graciously. “I’ve been waiting all day for Facilities to come and take care of… _this_.”

Sam nodded and began her ascent. She wasn’t afraid of heights. In no time she’d ripped off the sign and come back down with the helmet tucked under her arm.

“Thank you,” Ms. Gray said, appraising her. “It’s good to know some students still have the proper respect.”

Sam didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d once stuck Brillo pads on Wisdom’s breasts to give her a bright bronze bra her freshman year. “Of course.”

“I’ve seen you around. You’re one of our student workers—“

“Sam,” she piped up, not even bothering to hide her eagerness. “Sam Black Crow.”

“Sam,” she echoed, taking her hand. Ms. Gray’s hand was cool as marble, but she made Sam feel hot with fever all over. “Aren’t you a clever girl.”

Awestruck, Sam nodded, and then left, with zero game at all. She blushed with heat all the way home, cheeks burning in the crisp October air.

*

On Monday when Sam showed up for her morning shift, Jeremy told her to report directly to Special Collections.

“Really?” Sam asked, hot blush flooding her cheeks again.

Jeremy waived a little pink call slip in front of her face. “I’ve got orders from Ms. Gray herself—the archives are short-handed and only the strapping, lusty Samantha Black Crow will do.”

“She didn’t really say that, did she?” Sam made a grab for the paper, but Jeremy held it high above her head. She hated that he was taller than her.

“Of course she didn't.” Jeremy gave her this prim, maiden-auntish look. “Listen, will you try to keep your kinky Marian the Librarian fantasies in check? I don’t want to hear that you’ve drooled all over a manuscript collection or something.”

Sam winked and all but moonwalked her way to the elevator.

*

Working in Special Collections wasn’t exactly what Sam had expected, but it sure as hell beat shuffling around the labyrinthine stacks. She helped bring materials to the patrons, carefully assisting the curators as they unpacked books and folders from acid-free boxes, wheeling them out on a little cart. A few times, she caught a glimpse of Ms. Gray, the swish of her tartan skirt as she wove in and out of meetings, the low timbre of her voice as she talked to the other archivists. Her voice alone did things to Sam, the syllables rich and grand and cultured, like she was speaking down from on high somewhere. It was a voice that should have echoed through a marble palace, out of place in the hushed quiet of the reading room.

As Sam was gathering her things from the lockers, she felt a hand on her shoulder, the grip of the fingers like the talons of a bird. “I heard you had a good first week.” That voice; Ms. Gray’s, like a sigh of lightning.

Sam felt all her smoothness and bravado turn to mush; she was way, _way_ out of her league. “Um, happy to help out. Anywhere you need me.” _Anything for you_.

Ms. Gray’s clever mouth did a little quirk. Sam swore her steely eyes saw right through her. “I admired your initiative the other day. I sense great potential in you, Sam.”

“Thanks.” Sam yelped like a teenage boy going through puberty.

Ms. Grey gave her one of her trademark cool nods and glided away. Sam heard the rushing of wings again in her ears, faint with a longing that was not altogether natural.

*

After two weeks in Special Collections, Sam was faced with the sneaking suspicion that something was a bit _off_ about Ms. Gray. And by off she meant numinous. Supernatural. Inhuman. One of those things.

Sam had always considered herself as possessing a kind of spidey-sense for the not quite normal. She could tell when a house was haunted, could lay out a Celtic Cross and burn sage in the dark of the moon with the best of them. Maybe there’d been some Cherokee medicine man or woman back in the Black Crow family tree. It left a hollow pain in her heart that she did not know this for certain, the knowledge denied her by the father who considered her half-blood. She had ached for that knowledge all her life, a genealogical missing limb. 

But the thing was, before Sam had always gone looking for the supernatural. Ever since that business last year with Shadow and the weird shit up in Lakeside, it had come looking for _her_. Ms. Gray was just the latest in an odd cast of colorful characters—was she giving off some kind of shamanistic pheromone? Was her number scrawled on the eldritch equivalent of a gas station bathroom—for a good time call Samantha Black Crow? Sam made a note to get her aura read soon.

In the meantime, there was her mesmerizing new boss, sweeping through the archive like a hawk on the wing, her voice like lyric poetry. Sam could listen to her talk for hours, weaving together facts, opinions, statistics, and arguments in a seemingly flawless pattern.  The funny thing was, Ms. Gray wasn’t really Sam’s type at all—no tattoos or piercings anywhere, normal colored, if thick and beautiful, hair. Her clothes were sort of prissy and old-fashioned; the girls Sam usually dated preferred leather bustiers and fishnets to cardigans and tweed. But there was no doubt in Sam’s mind that Ms. Gray was the most striking creature she had ever laid eyes on.

It wasn’t just one clue that gave it away—there were many, looking back on it. The flutter of feathers that echoed in Sam’s ears every time they parted, the flashing eyes and haughty manner. The sharp angles of her marble-like cheekbones and the way they matched those of the lobby’s pallid Wisdom, as if Ms. Gray might have posed for the sculpture herself. The fact that no one seemed to know where she lived or how long she’d worked at the library; Sam had asked Jeremy once and he just said, “She’s been here forever.”

Was it her own initiative that lead her to stay late that fateful night or were their other forces at play? Sam found herself putting her newly acquired mad research skills to work, calling up old yearbooks and charters from the University archives, going all the way back to the school’s founding in 1848. And there it was, pay dirt.

-A tableaux vivant of some of the UW's first class of coeds acting out an allegory. _Miss A. Gray (Wisdom)_ had been scratched underneath the sepia-toned daguerreotype in black ink.

-A yearbook photograph of PhDs in cap and gown from the 1920s, only one woman among them, tartan skirt peeking out from beneath the black hem of her robe. _Greyson_ , _Minerva_ sandwiched in between _Hoffman, Rodney_ and _Edwards, Wilbur_.

-A clipping from the student paper dated 1959 announcing the appointment of Parthenia Grey as Assistant Professor of Classics.

The resemblance was remarkable, in every age, in every era. Were they all related, Sam wondered, or could they be the same woman? Her fingertip alighted upon a photograph of a group of young women picketing in front of the president’s house with a banner that proclaimed HERSTORY NOT HISTORY. Ms. Gray—or her identical twin—carried a sign that read GODDESS BLESS AMERICA in bright purple letters, sly smile of triumph on her lips.

“The 70s were a good time for me.” Ms. Gray’s cool voice sliced through the silence like a double-headed labrys. She looked down at the photograph fondly. “It felt good to be worshiped again.”

Sam swallowed, lump in her throat, and tried not to think about the fact she was going eye-to-eye with an actual _goddess_. “I know who you are.”

“Do you?” Her bright eyes flashed back in challenge.

“You’re Athena, goddess of wisdom. Though…aren’t you a little pale for someone Greek?”

“The scholars who brought me here in the nineteenth century, who read of my deeds and invoked my favor, were good old-fashioned white Anglo-Saxon Protestants. They created me in their image,” she said, with an offhand gesture to her light brown hair.

“Guess that explains the whole Gibson Girl thing you got going on.”

“Quite.”

“You wanted me to find you. To see you,” Sam stammered. “Why?”

Ms. Gray…Athena…took a few careful steps inside Sam’s personal space. “You’re one of the few who can. You have a gift, Sam. You’re a clever girl.” She tucked a lock of hair coquettishly behind Sam’s left ear. “And I like clever girls.”

Sam felt her heart pound in her chest and warm, slick desire sluice down her spine. “What do you want from me?”

“As I said before, it feels good to be worshiped.” Athena stroked Sam’s cheek. “Be my priestess.”

“And what does that entail?” Her hormones might have been boiling, but Sam knew the old stories—be careful when you bargain with the gods.

“In Athens at my festival, my maidens wove me a pristine white _peplos_ every year and dressed my statue with it in the Parthenon.”

Sam laughed and it broke the tension. “Yeah, well I failed Home-Ec, and I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m no _maiden_.”

“A pity,” Athena replied. Her hand began to wander down the curve of Sam’s waist and Sam stayed rooted to the spot, unable to pull away. “But there are other forms of worship.”

“I…I thought you were a virgin goddess. Chaste. Asexual. Whatever you call it.”

“A mistranslation, whispered down the alleyway of history.” Athena’s hand crept closer to the waistband of Sam’s dark jeans, toying with the tab of her zipper. “They called me virgin because I would accept no husband.” Her finger began to trace the front seam of Sam’s jeans, teasing her right through the fabric in a way that made Sam moan. “That did not mean I was chaste.”

Sam’s hips thrust forward, her body seeking pleasure with a mind of its own. Her brain struggled to regain its footing, determined not to bargain herself away cheaply, no matter how much she wanted this. “And…this arrangement…where I worship you—what do I get in return?”

Athena smiled back. “Clever girl,” she said again, hot breath in Sam’s ear, her fingers stroking Sam’s clit through her jeans. “There were mysteries, women’s mysteries, that no philosopher ever wrote about. My chief priestess gave herself to me, body and mind, and in return I gave her wisdom.”

 _Wisdom_. Sam’s GPA could certainly do with some improvement. She plunged her hand into the thick mass of Athena’s hair, sending it tumbling down to her shoulders, leaning forward to capture her mouth in a hungry kiss, something she’d wanted to do since the minute she’d laid eyes on her. Athena was a good kisser, skilled and deliberate, more passionate than one would expect a “virgin” goddess to be.

“Okay,” Sam said, between heaving breaths. “I’ll be your priestess. But only until the end of the school year.”

Athena slipped her hand into Sam’s jeans and played her like a lyre. They sealed their bargain with moans and soft cries instead of words.

*

Sam had never been one for church or Bible reading. Even her weekly women’s drum circle had felt like too much of a spiritual commitment. But this kind of worship, the kind that was done with tongue and fingers and lips between soft parted thighs, _this_ was a form of prayer she enjoyed.

They spent most of that fall semester in bed. Well, not always in bed; sometimes they fucked in the head archivist’s office after hours, and there was a very memorable time when Athena had Sam spread out and naked like some kind of pagan sacrifice on the large mahogany table in the reading room. And when they weren’t fucking, Sam was worshiping in other ways—by studying, oddly enough.

Athena, to her credit, kept up her end of their bargain. Sam found her grades improving, not by magic, but because she genuinely wanted to learn things, to _know_ things. One question led to another, and before she knew it, Sam had tumbled down a research wormhole. Her social life suffered, but her GPA climbed.

And the sex, holy mother of fuck, the sex was great. Better than she’d ever had it, marathon fuck sessions that could go on for hours, just the two of them tucked away in Athena’s forgotten little apartment in faculty housing. Though Sam always felt drained afterwards, lying there limp as a dishrag in her lover’s arms; it gave her pause—what was this worship costing her? Athena looked healthy; there were roses back in her cheeks now and her soft brown hair glowed in the weak winter sun.

The imbalance of the god-mortal relationship unnerved her a little. Sam alluded to it once, saying, “Probably violates a hundred HR policies, what we’re doing. You being my boss and all.”

“Technically, I’m the boss of your boss’ boss.” Athena tossed her long mane of hair over her shoulder. “You’re concerned about the power imbalance of a boss-employee relationship and not the fact that I am a two thousand year old goddess and you are a mortal?”

“Well, _technically_ ,” Sam teased, “if you came here with the founding of the university, you’re only 168. A young’un.”

Athena tugged at her hair, trying to coax her back into bed. “If it bothers you, I can have you transferred back to the Main library.”

“Nah. I like the archives. The stacks give me claustrophobia.” Sam pulled away from her embrace and began to slip on her jeans and sweater. “Why do you work here anyway?”

“The Classics department downsized due to low enrollment,” Athena said with a sigh.

“You could move somewhere better, where they’re into that stuff more. Some place Ivy League, maybe—you’re an expert after all.” Sam had meant to be complimentary but Athena’s grey eyes clouded over, and she pulled the covers around herself defensively. “You can’t leave,” Sam said flatly.

She delicately wiped away a tear. “Land-grant university. As much as I’d like to make for greener pastures, I’m bound to this place.”

“Oh.” Sam didn’t really know what to say—how did you console an immortal?

“The lives of American gods,” Athena said wistfully, “are both larger and smaller than you could ever imagine, Samantha Black Crow.

*

As winter glided into spring, it became more and more clear to Sam that this priestess arrangement wasn’t going to work out in the long term. Athena’s fusty Victorian apartment began to seem less welcoming, the smiles and embraces of the girls Sam passed on State Street more inviting. One in particular, a redhead who sold organic cheese curds at the farmer’s market, called Sam to her like a siren. She had apple green eyes and freckles that covered the bridge of her nose and danced across her shoulders; Sam wondered if they went all the way down and was eager to investigate the curves underneath the girl’s loose peasant blouse.

But Athena pressuring Sam into taking Elementary Greek fall semester was really the last straw. There were only so many ways Sam was willing to worship, and learning a new language with a completely different fucking alphabet was not one of them.

Still, Sam was determined to let the goddess down easy—she did have a reputation for being somewhat vengeful, after all.

They parted on a cloudless spring day at the end of term. Sam laid out a picnic for them—olives, bread, cheese, even a bottle of Two Buck Chuck from Trader Joe’s. The best offering she could come up with on a starving student’s budget.

Athena’s hair glistened bright in the sunlight and her skin glowed marble white. She had been beautiful before, but in a pale, delicate way—she had grown powerful, robust, in the warmth of Sam’s worship. It made it hard to leave her.

“You’re looking well today. Strong, I mean,” Sam said.

Athena threw back her shoulders and puffed out her chest, sunning herself. “English 129 is reading the Odyssey this week.”

“Ah,” Sam said. She cleared her throat and thrust a white envelope into Athena’s hands. “I got some good news—all that studying paid off. I won this special scholarship for Native American students. Pays for my books and tuition and everything.”

Athena’s grey eyes flashed back at her. “Clever girl.”

“Yeah.” Sam blushed, shyly rubbing the back of her neck. “So, that means I won’t be working in the library next fall.”

A cloud passed over Athena’s face. She shivered, although it was still warm. “I see,” was all she said.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

Athena smoothed her skirt with a brisk quirk. She avoided Sam’s eyes when she spoke, profile still haughty and proud. “We had a bargain. And it is concluded.”

“Sure you're not going to turn me into a spider or something?”

At this, Athena flashed Sam a wry smile. “The administration frowns on that sort of thing these days.”

Sam smiled back and rummaged in her messenger bag for the gift she had worked so hard on. “I made you something. To remember me by, even if I’m not around to worship anymore.”

Athena unwrapped the tissue paper with care to reveal the small bronze statue, a miniature of the one that stood at the library’s entrance. Tears sprang to her bright eyes. “No one has given me an offering like this in a very long time.”

“I mean, I know it’s small, nothing grand like what you’re used to…”

Before Sam realized it, Athena pulled her into a fierce and tight embrace. She held her close and Sam beheld all of her, flesh and blood and marble and myth, powerful and vulnerable at once. Athena kissed her forehead in blessing, and Sam felt something there, a crown of laurels shining like burnished gold. She heard an owl hoot loudly, three times, though it was the middle of the day. And then Athena released her and it was gone.

“Samantha Black Crow, my wily and clever girl. Go in peace,” the goddess said.

Sam turned and headed for home, blood singing with the warmth of spring, sped on like winged Victory herself. “Wily Samantha” had a nice ring to it, she thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Canon says that Sam attends UW-Madison, but some of the traditions mentioned (like the statue with the magic foot) are inspired by other universities. The title is actually the motto of Princeton University, not UW, but it just felt too perfect to resist. 
> 
> I love Sam and and can't wait for her to make her appearance in Bryan Fuller's American Gods. Happy Yuletide!


End file.
